


Sweet Violets

by Copper_Nails (Her_Madjesty)



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Anonymous Sex, F/M, ForeignSpy!Cassian, Mirror Sex, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Prostitute!Jyn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 15:05:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9497438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Her_Madjesty/pseuds/Copper_Nails
Summary: The year is 1889, and Cassian Andor, a foreign spy under contract with England's burgeoning spy network, must track down the daughter of one Galen Erso in order to interrogate her about her scientist father's whereabouts. Said interrogation, however, does not go quite as Cassian planned.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This piece is loosely based on Liam Scarlet's ballet, 'Sweet Violets'. I repeat: loosely. That ballet is based on the murders of Jack the Ripper; this piece is based more on a scene revealed in a Royal Opera House special that took me by the shoulders and shouted, "Look at this tension! You should write something based on this!"
> 
> Given my current fascination with RebelCaptain, here we are. I hope you enjoy! XOXO

There is a park in the depths of Whitechapel that is less of a park and more of a rat’s nest. Cast off newspapers, crisp _1889_ s printed in the upper right corner of their withering pages, never last long there; they fill the shoes of people passing by, going to or from work at all hours of the day. Brushed off garbage – a hairbrush with broken teeth, yesterday’s crusted up bagels, shoes worn so thin they’ve reverted back to animal skin – make friends with the residents of Tower Hamlets, fill their closets and pantries for a while before another run of mischief comes along.

Cassian Andor keeps a hat pulled down over the bulk of his face as he walks down one of the eight streets leading towards the park; the center of Tower Hamlets. A gazebo, the borough’s lynchpin, welcomes him, its wide roof sheltering him from the gentle mist of rain that seems perpetual the further London gets into its chilly spring. He leans back against one of the gazebo’s poles and watches, eyes idle, as a troop of children wander past; as an older man, hands and face lined, watches him back, a half-eaten bagel pressed against his mouth.

Cassian’s shoes are too shiny for this part of London; he’d done his best to scuff them on his way here, but the water stains and dirt marks can’t hide the history behind them. His shirt is too thin, and there are goosebumps running up and down his arms, but they do not make him a resident of this borough any more than his shoes do.

The man with the bagel narrows his eyes before he takes another bite, then shifts, ever so slightly. His barely-covered toes point towards a particular window, some two stories above Cassian’s head. Cassian, not quite looking at him, shifts, as well. The window is poorly lit, shining orange from the inside, though the glass itself appears to be cracked.

Cassian doesn’t nod. He doesn’t move. He lingers, waiting until his companion has finished his bagel in its entirety. When the man rises, he offers Cassian a sharp, knowing nod.

Cassian blinks at him, long and slow. The man hesitates for a heartbeat, maybe less. Then, with a glance down at Cassian’s fine shoes, he snorts and starts for one of the eight roads out of Tower Hamlets.

Cassian waits until the sound of the other man’s footsteps have disappeared before he moves. The wood of the gazebo is wet under his hands; he wipes the drizzling rain onto his pants, then steps out from beneath the protective roof.

It takes longer than he would have liked to find the door into the building with the broken orange window, but he manages. The steps up to the second floor creak beneath his weight; as Cassian is not a heavy man, this speaks to their age and to frequent use. The top step has been so worn down that the veins of the wood are no longer visible; rather, there is nothing but a thin support and smooth wood dust.

Cassian steps over this last crumbling remnant and finds himself on a lonesome landing. Four doors pepper the hall in front of him; only one bleeds orange light onto the dark wood. He waits, listening, but there are no harrowed breaths to be heard, no thundering steps, no creaking of bed frames.

He forces himself to relax before he moves forward. A hand brushes over an unseemly, thick beard; it rises and removes the slightly damp hat. Cassian presses the hat to his chest as he steps forward; clings to it as he knocks on the bleeding orange door.

Keen ears hear shuffling from the other side. The door opens, just as crack, but before Cassian can stick his foot in to save it, he catches sight of the door chain, unrusted and holding strong.

The woman on the other side of the door has skin paler than his, but the shadows under her eyes are nearly identical to his. She leans against something just out of sight and takes in the inch of him that the orange light reveals. A gentle hum escapes pink-white lips.

“What can I do for you, sir?” she asks. Her accent tilts the words in his favor, a flowery thing, but it doesn’t take a detective to detect the steel underneath. Cassian is not a detective – he’s someone much worse, someone far more observant.

“Mind if I come in?” His own accent has been worn down, but hints of it linger on the edges of his words. He sees the woman taste it, sees her eyes narrow. Her hands, he notices, lingering on the edge of the door, are torn at the cuticles.

She studies him, then steps out of the orange light. The door closes, but Cassian hears the slide of the chain, then the smack of it as it hits her door. When the door opens again, the woman’s disappeared, but the orange light beckons him inside.

Cassian hesitates for a heartbeat, his fine shoes edging on the threshold. He releases a breath as he crosses over but doesn’t see it disappear up into the rafters, never to be reclaimed again.

The hinges of the door creak as it closes behind him.

The woman’s room is small, lit entirely by a lone lamp without a shade. A mirror doubles the size of the room, refracts back the light, though the crack down the center leaves everything distorted, a mere piece of itself. Cassian sees his own reflection bisected by the crack and forces himself to look away.

The woman wears a white dress that comes down to her knees. He feels a flush come over the length of his neck at the sight of her bare feet, the curve of her calf, but Cassian has seen bolder women before.

“What’s your name, stranger?” she asks. Her hair falls in limp planes down to her shoulders; she twirls it with an errant finger.

“Tell me yours,” Cassian says.

One of the woman’s eyebrows quirks upward, and her head tilts to the side, just a little. “You can call me Kestrel, if you like,” she says. Her eyes pass over him, careless, in their own way, but he sees the places that they catch. As she steps towards him, he brings a hand to touch his wallet. She’s backlit, so the subsequent blowing out of her pupils is nigh impossible for him to see.

“Kestrel.” The name tastes false, but so would any name he gave to her.

“Of course, you’re welcome to call me anything else,” the woman – Kestrel – adds. She closes the space between them down to a few inches, then holds out a hand with a too-small smile.

Cassian resists the urge to sigh, but only just. He retrieves his wallet from his pocket and fishes out what money he’d managed to bring with him. The bills pass into Kestrel’s hand without a word from him, though he watches as she takes her time inspecting them.

“Kestrel works well enough for me,” he tells her.

The spark of her eyes doesn’t lack genuine curiosity, but Cassian sees the moment she tucks it away. It disappears, just like his money into the bodice of her dress. She lets her gaze linger on him for several moments longer, then begins to pace, circling him. She hums under her breath, reaching out and touching in tentative, sharp motions; his hip, the curve of his ass, the small of his back.

Cassian forces himself to hold as still as possible, though he feels himself grow tenser by the moment. Only when Kestrel has arrived in front of him again does he release the breath he’d been holding.

“Do I pass inspection?” he asks, and surprises himself with the hoarseness of his own voice.

The smile that passes over Kestrel’s face stings too much to be truly amused, but the appreciation in it does not go unnoticed. “You’ll do, I suppose,” she says. She reaches out and takes one of Cassian’s hands in her own, then leads him forward, towards the soft expanse of her bed.

Cassian can see himself in her mirror, crooked and dusty around the edges. He can see her, too; the back of her dress, dipping lower than he’d first thought, and her hair, dancing against her skin.

“Pay attention,” Kestrel chides. She pulls him down, and the bed caves, the mattress worn thin and spilling out at the seams.

Cassian lets her guide him forward, her hands on either side of his face. She brushes over his untrimmed stubble and seems – curious. A finger traces upward and pulls at a lock of hair that’s fallen into his face.

“Take off your shoes, handsome,” she says in a tone that’s almost convincing. “The bed’s more comfortable without them.”

(Cassian Andor lives in a home that is empty even on the days that he spends there. He keeps his shoes by the door, well-oiled and shining; his jackets in a wardrobe along with unremarkable pants. The outfits he borrows as part of his work come to him in pieces; these are scattered. It’s better, he thinks, to leave such things flung about; the line between his life and his work are already blurry. His own bed is a mattress in the corner of an otherwise plain room. He keeps it in the corner furthest from the window, better to keep the chill of London from sinking into his bones.)

(All these years, and he’s never gotten used to it.)

When he doesn’t move, the light in Kestrel’s eyes flickers. She lets go of his face and slips off of the bed so that her knees are on the floor. Cassian freezes as her hands trace over his ankles. She glances up at him and tilts her head. It isn’t a question, nor a request for permission; she informs him with a look that this is a place where he has nothing to fear.

For the right price, that is.

She takes his shoes off, one after the other. She reties the laces as she goes, then tucks them under her bed. Cassian’s breathing hasn’t steadied by the time she rejoins him on the bed; there’s a warmth, now, curling up in his belly that’s distracting him from observing her room.

If Kestrel notices his recaptured attention, she doesn’t comment on it. “Jacket next,” she instructs.

Cassian does as she says. The jacket is still a bit damp from the mist, and it mars the sheets of her bed like an ink stain. Kestrel hums her approval at the sight of his white undershirt (he’s playing someone of about the same class as he actually is, but the shirt is still too thin).

“Would you like me to kiss you, now?” she asks, her voice hushed and low.

Cassian opens his mouth, tries to speak, and is struck by the lump that’s welled up in his throat. Kestrel’s eyes alight with some sort of laughter as he stutters; they flash as he raises a hand and rubs the back of his neck.

“I need you to say yes or no, handsome,” she tells him.

(It’s more courtesy, he guesses, than she’s ever gotten.)

“Yes,” he says, then starts at the harshness of his voice. One of Kestrel’s eyebrows flicks upward, but she doesn’t question it.

She leans forward slowly and presses her first kiss to his nose. Cassian’s breath catches; his hands flutter down to her waist on instinct alone. The orange light of the room adds gold strands to her hair. He can see them better now that she’s closer.

Then she kisses him on the mouth, and his eyes slip shut.

(Cassian Andor has kissed pretty women for his missions before. It’s not a duty the slap-dash English spy network advertises when they’re looking for men to run their jobs, but Cassian’s been with them for long enough that he knows that particular missions call for particular actions.)

Kissing Kestrel – or, rather, letting her kiss him – brings a well of guilt up into his stomach alongside the fire that’s slowing beginning to build.

Kestrel pulls back, licking her lips as she goes, and looks at him with deep consideration. When she leans in again, Cassian moves up to greet her, only to be stopped by a gentle hand on his chest.

“I don’t think so,” Kestrel murmurs into his ear. Her nails brush against his skin through his shirt, and Cassian swallows hard. He lets her push him down into the bed, doing his best to ignore the way his cock aches at the sight of her hovering over him. Her hair frames her like an off-brown halo stained by the orange light.

“Let me take care of you,” she says, leaning down and pressing a kiss to his collarbone. Her hips rock forward with such gentleness that Cassian almost sobs; the friction is barely there, nigh nonexistent, but it still leaves him shivering.

He doesn’t quite see Kestrel smirk, but then again, he’s not supposed to.

She moves with care, exploring his body with a thoroughness he didn’t think he could afford. Her hands settle, for a moment, deep in his hair, then move down to rest on his chest. Kestrel kisses him again in the same moment she tweaks his nipples and swallows his gasp for her efforts. She readjusts herself over him, setting one knee on either side of his hips.

His own hands flail at her sides, uncertain – when she kisses him again, dragging her tongue against his bottom lip, Cassian suddenly forgets everything his hands have ever been good for. They settle on her thighs, at last, and feel the warmth of her skin burning through the white slip.

(He’s supposed to stay objective, the voice in the back of his head reminds him, but it sputters as Kestrel grinds against him again. His mouth falls open, he can’t help it, and then her tongue is there, wiping him clean of every thought and mission directive.)

She doesn’t let his hands move from her thighs, stills them with one of her own when he tries. Instead, she hoists her shift up and lets her skin drag against his worn pants, lets him glimpse her underwear and the red flush of her skin. Cassian whines and chases after her when she breaks their kiss; he thinks she laughs as he seizes her lips again, but the noise thins into a low moan.

He’s not sure how she undoes the clutch of his trousers without him realizing (nor does he remember the knife he has strapped to his leg), but then her skin is on his, and the world is spinning. He falls back onto the mattress again, dragging her with him, and, for a moment, catches a glimpse of himself in her too-dirty mirror. His pupils are blown wide, and there’s a smile on her lips that’s almost feral. She catches his gaze and holds it in the mirror’s reflection, all the while rubbing herself against his cock.

Cassian growls and brings his mouth back up to hers. One hand drops from her thigh to pull his underwear down; Kestrel assists him as best she can without breaking from his skin. He’s leaking, he can feel it, and the world is warm and wet around him.

“There you are,” he hears Kestrel murmur. She sounds pleased, and he can’t help but wonder why. Then she presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and he’s chasing her again, the train of thought dropped.

(It was never supposed to go this far, her hovering over him, batting his hands away from her while she, in turn, stroked his cock. He was supposed to be observing her, settling on top of her, taking advantage of her distraction in order to get a better understanding of her room and of her person.)

“Stop thinking,” she orders, gently smacking his cheek. Cassian lets out a hissing gasp as her mouth begins to travel, down his neck, down his chest (shirt still on, though her clever fingers hike it up so she can follow his treasure trail), down to the divots of his hips. She curls her fingers through the coarse, black curls and presses a kiss to one hip, then to the other.

Cassian lets out a whine so low and long, he’d be surprised if her neighbors didn’t hear it. Kestrel smiles at him again, a goddess in the orange light, before she takes him in her mouth.

It is a miracle that he doesn’t come then and there. Cassian arches into her warmth, his fingers curling into her sheets as her tongue laps at him, tracing the sensitive vein on the underside of his cock. She rests a hand around his base and works what her mouth cannot take; the hollowing of her cheeks and the grip of her fingers is perfect, just perfect, and Cassian’s mind goes white for a little while. He’s saying something – he’s not sure what, exactly, nonsense falling from his lips as her mouth works – but he can feel her laughing at him, the vibration doing as much for him as her active and clever tongue.

He goes tight in the same moment she pulls off of him; a pump of her fist, then another, and he’s coming, spilling over her hand and onto his stomach, his thighs. Cassian closes his eyes and balls up his fists. His brain sputters, then goes silent.

His chest is still heaving when he manages to open his eyes again. Kestrel is sitting back on her heels, looking for all the world like an alley cat who’s managed to steal away the last scant strips of meat from the butcher’s shop.

“I take it that was good for you,” she says.

Cassian’s head hits the mattress once more. The world is still shivering around him, but his breaths are steadying out. In a moment or two, he’ll be able to get up again, retrieve – whatever it was that he needed to retrieve, he can’t quite remember.

Kestrel wipes her hand on his shirt. His head is still spinning enough that Cassian forgets to grimace. She moves her body off of his, and he nearly complains about the sudden burst of cold that arrives in her absence. Instead, he forces himself to stay silent, to watch her as she begins to move around her room.

“You don’t want me to return the favor?” he rasps.

Kestrel laughs. It’s not the delighted little thing she offered him while on top of him; it’s sharper, less honest than that.

Cassian’s senses come snapping back to him. He reaches for the knife strapped against his leg only to find it missing. One look at Kestrel and he doesn’t have to ask where it’s gone.

Her eyes are glowing in the dim light of the bedroom.

“Tell me,” she says, “what convinced you to sleep with me before killing me, Mr. Detective?” The lightness has gone out of her voice, but the playfulness has not.

“Not a detective,” Cassian replies. He tries to right himself only for Kestrel’s hand to return to his chest. Her nails, once so pleasant, now threatened to dig into his skin.

“Doesn’t matter,” Kestrel continues, though the curious light is back in her eye. “What do you want from me?”

Cassian considers her, then his options.

(Queen Victoria is not in the habit of hiring foreign intelligence agents who will spill their mission details to the first pretty girl they run in to, but then again, it isn’t exactly the queen he works for. That honor belongs to General Draven, underling to the queen and head of the still-burgeoning intelligence agency that will one day take the British Empire and her enemies by storm. Cassian and his connections to Spain’s own agencies had their benefits; the result of a trade between the countries, he’s long since become accustomed to finding himself in situations like these.)

(Well, not quite like these.)

He clears his throat and studies the way the orange light deepens the shadows of her face. “When was the last time,” he asks her, “that you were in contact with your father, Miss Erso?”

Kestrel’s – rather, Virginia ‘Jyn _’_ Erso _’s –_ eyes narrow. The pressure on Cassian’s chest grows more present, and his breaths grow shallower, in turn.

“That answers my second question,” Jyn admits, leaning to until they’re nose to nose. “But not my first. What made you decide to sleep with me if you wanted to find out where my father was?”

It’s not a question Cassian has the answer to. He searches for one, mouth open, but silence fills the little space between himself and Jyn.

“I also find myself wondering,” Jyn says, her breath warm against him mouth, “why you felt the need to bring a knife.”

His gaping seems to be answer enough for her.

The pressure on his chest abates.

“Well, then,” she says, leaning back for a moment. “if you’re not going to talk, I must at least thank you for the sum you gave me. I haven’t made so much in weeks.”

Cassian’s brow furrows for a moment. “Er – you’re welcome?”

Jyn smirks.

He doesn’t see what she brings down on his unsuspecting head – it feels like it’s made of metal, but it’s too broad to be his knife, maybe more like a frying pan. All he sees before Jyn Erso renders him unconscious is the smirk still etched out on her face and the slip of her dress’s strap from her left shoulder.

Then, the world goes dark.

*

When he wakes, it’s to find himself exactly where Miss Erso had left him – strewn out on her bed, his trousers still around his ankles. Cassian swears as he forces himself upright, then brings a hand to the lump growing on his temple.

Her room, he realizes, as he looks around, has been cleaned out. Cassian swears again, then reaches for his trousers. The pockets are suspiciously empty; when he searches them, he finds his wallet gone. The knife that Jyn had so effectively confiscated also fails to make an appearance.

Cassian groans, already imagining a far less pleasant dressing down from General Draven. There’ll be no finding Galen Erso without the help of his daughter, and unless Cassian does some extraordinarily careful searching, there’ll be no finding Jyn Erso, either, not after this.

He pulls up his trousers and, idly, lifts a hand to touch the bump on his head. A spark of admiration bursts to life alongside burning worn annoyance, but he does his best to ignore it.

The man with the bagel is not in the gazebo when he slinks out of Jyn’s apartment. Cassian pulls his hat down over his face once more, wincing as it brushes against his newfound injury. The road he takes out of Tower Hamlets is a long one, but better, he thinks, for plotting his next move.

Dressing down or not, Draven’s next assignment is already clear: find Jyn Erso, and bring her in.

**Author's Note:**

> This is likely going to remain a one-shot, though I know there appears to be opportunity for plot. Let me know what you thought!


End file.
